


In My Veins

by sharedwithyou



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drug Addiction, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Suspension Of Disbelief, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29550339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharedwithyou/pseuds/sharedwithyou
Summary: WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGERS FOR ADDICTION/WITHDRAWALLovely (you), a former Templar, struggles with addiction, loss, and a meddlesome spirit of Compassion12 hours is how long it takes for the lyrium in your bloodstream to completely disappear. When you’d feel a slight tremble in your sword arm, when you’d feel the irritability start to surface. The complete control you’d exert in every part of your life, from a perfectly balanced breakfast portion to the pace of your after dinner stroll, would start to shake.The box with both your initials would save you. It was almost like he was the one who would save you. Even now, when he’s no longer here.
Relationships: Cole/Reader, Cullen Rutherford/Reader, Original Male Character/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	In My Veins

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGERS FOR ADDICTION/WITHDRAWAL
> 
> please suspend disbelief about lyrium/other possible inaccuracies. So, suspend disbelief about everything I guess. Such as my advice about ants.
> 
> In this case lyriym is injected (because the first time I saw Cullen throw his box I thought there was a syringe inside and it became my head cannon)
> 
> Dedicated to my lovelies struggling with addiction/weaning off dependency-causing drugs.
> 
> You are strong. You can do this. Recovery is not linear, and every day you make it, is a victory.  
> 
> 
> As such, this fic does not have a terrible ending.
> 
> Enjoy lovelies (if you decide to keep reading)!
> 
> Xoxo Bucky

“You have a problem.”

You take the pristine white cloth to wipe the tip of the syringe clean. “Unless you’re a lyrium-induced hallucination, I’m peachy.”

“I am not a hallucination.”

“See? Peachy.

He crouches on the counter as you gently place the syringe in the box adorned with delicate filigree. You run your finger over the initials carved inside, pausing briefly at the ampersand. It had taken six strokes to get the shape right. The various depths of the carving no longer bothered you. Not so much imperfection, as uniqueness.

The imperfection was what made it yours.

Your whole life, you’d been striving for that impossible perfection. Missed opportunities haunted you, mistakes taunted you, and your every second was dedicated to practice, improvement, and whatever else was necessary to succeed. No, not just succeed. Excel.

Criticism had paralyzed you, so much so that you’d been forced to choose; let words lose their meaning, or give up. So you became numb.

But perhaps because they are merely letters. These initials spoke to you.

“It will hurt less if you forget.”

Quick as a blink you’ve drawn your sword and sliced off a lock of his hair before he has time to vanish.

“You promised. You wouldn’t.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, testing the new length. He doesn’t move from his spot on the counter.

“How does it look?”

It’s almost absurd. He’s not angry you pulled your weapon on him. He’s genuinely curious about his hair.

“It looks nice.”

He laughs and it’s a little thing, soft and short. An amused exhalation more than anything.

It quells your panicked anger.

“I want to remember. It’s part of me now. Even if it’s painful. Even if it’s imperfect.”

He doesn’t respond directly. “You have a problem.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “All Templars take lyrium.”

He shakes his head, and the anger comes back. “Don’t you dare judge me Cole-“

“Problem.” He points to the ground. “Ants.”

You look where he’s pointing and see a trail of ants marching purposefully towards a cherry stem.

You feel the defensiveness morph into embarrassment. “Oh.”

“Yes.” He has every right to be resentful, but he isn’t.

You envy his innocence. So much so that it’s you who almost resents him.

But you don’t. Quite the opposite, really.

“I’m sor-“

“Sandalwood. Burn it for four hours. They’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

Before you can thank him, he’s gone.

“You have a problem with your shield grip.”

The recruit hangs his head and sighs. “I know my left arm is weak. I didn’t realize how little I used it until I signed up. I’m way behind the others.”

You nod sympathetically. “It comes easier for some. You’ll catch up.”

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely. But I wasn’t trying to state the obvious and discourage you. You’re wrapping your thumb over your index finger. It would be easier for you to put your thumb above the rest of your fingers.”

He tests the grip out. “I’m not seeing any difference.”

“Give it a few days. Based on your hand shape you’ll build calluses much faster this way.”

“Well it’s worth a try.” He smiles at you gratefully. “You’re amazing, you know? Women in my village aren’t interested in learning how to fight.”

“Interest has very little to do with it.”

“Take heed of (y/n)’s instruction. She’s one of the finest Templars there are.”

You turn in surprise, before quickly crossing one arm over your chest. “Knight-Captain.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not Knight-Captain anymore. I haven’t been for a long time.”

“You’ll always be Knight-Captain to me. But if you want me to call you Commander I suppose I can give it a shot.”

He grins. “How about just Cullen?”

“Just Cullen it is then.”

He turns to the recruit. “Go get some rest.”

“Yes, Sir!”

“So, Just Cullen, did you need something from me?”

He rolls his eyes at your lame attempt of a joke. “I hear you’ve taken up a new profession. Wigmaker, is it?”

You put your hands on your hips. “Hairdresser, actually. So, the spirit snitched.”

“Actually it was Sera. She has a tendency to spy. Though no more so than Cole, I suppose.”

“Well I didn’t exactly join the Inquisition for solitude.”

“I’m not sure if I should discipline or reward you for taking a stab at him.”

“It was a warning. If I’d really wanted to stab him he’d be a corpse by now. Or, maybe I would be, since I’m not sure the extent of his fighting ability.” Hopelessly chasing perfection had taught you humility. “As it stands, his new bangs look great, and we’re all fine.”

He sighs deeply. “I know you want to serve. But I’m not sure it’s the best idea.”

You laugh bitterly. “Can you really afford to be picky?”

“Don’t misunderstand me, (y/n). I’m not questioning your abilities. Or your behavior. But grief is powerful. It can be debilitating. I want what’s best for you, and I’m not certain joining up is the answer.”

You look over his shoulder, so you can avoid eye contact without seeming weak. You disagree, but you don’t want to seem disrespectful. At the same time, you don’t want to seem unsure of yourself. So you don’t look down or turn away. You’ve always been conscious of your body language.

“I can make a difference here, Commander.”

He looks closely at you, silent for a moment.

“Just Cullen, remember?”

You let the corners of your lips curve into a half smile. “So you’re letting me stay, Just Cullen.”

“Yes. But stay off the battlefield for now. And away from demons. As a matter of fact, you could be of help teaching the greener soldiers. You noticed that recruit’s grip right away. Most would have passed it off as a weak forearm.”

“Is that a personal admission as well, Knight-Captain?”

“Dismissed, (y/n).”

“Yes sir, Just Cullen.”

12 hours. On the dot, you’d like to think. Not that you had a watch to measure it. The only ones you’ve seen were in Val Royeaux, and worth at least three month’s supply of lyrium. Easy to see which one was more worth it.

As it is, exact time was unnecessary for you. When the sun was up, so were you. You ate when you were hungry, slept when you were tired, and trained in between. If you were needed, they’d call for you. There was no “meet us at 3 o’clock.” Average soldiers could hardly afford a timepiece. When it was time for drills, the entire camp would be able to hear, loud and clear.

12 hours is how long it takes for the lyrium in your bloodstream to completely disappear. When you’d feel a slight tremble in your sword arm, when you’d feel the irritability start to surface. The complete control you’d exert in every part of your life, from a perfectly balanced breakfast portion to the pace of your after dinner stroll, would start to shake. 

The box with both your initials would save you. It was almost like he was the one who would save you. Even now, when he’s no longer here.

“You have a problem.”

He always seems to appear when it’s time for another draught. If you were inclined to be morbid, you’d say he likes to watch the needle pierce your skin.

But you’re not. You’re not going to sully that picture of innocence.

You’d like to think he’s here to make sure the dose you take isn’t the one that finally drives you mad. Since that’s out of his hands though, he’s more likely here to make sure you don’t harm anyone in your madness, should it finally catch up to you.

Once again, you choose not to ask why he’s here. You’re not even sure how you feel about it. Taking lyrium is a bit of an intimate thing. His presence is a little invasive. At the same time, it’s nice to have company. You weren’t too proud to admit you could get lonely.

Even if he could be judgemental.

“All Templars take lyrium. You’re condemning countless scores of good soldiers.”

“They’re not all good.”

You’d be insulted if you didn’t recognize his simplicity. Almost envy it, really. But that face and those eyes make envy impossible.

“Regardless, it’s part of our duties. More so, it’s part of our lives. Whether you like it or not. Whether any of us like it or not.”

He looks at you pensively. “Do you? Like it?”

You shrug. “I’m not sure, and I don’t care. It is what it is.” You look at him pensively right back. “And if you have a problem with it, you can leave.”

“I don’t have a problem with it. You’re the one with a problem.”

The annoyance rises despite your efforts. “It’s my life, kid.”

“The words don’t come out right sometimes.” He looks at you apologetically. You nod, satisfied.  
“The supply line was interrupted by a Venatori raid. The next shipment won’t arrive until next week.” He shakes his head sadly. “So many people will be in withdrawal. It will be bad. Painful. Problem.”

You close your eyes and sigh. The last time you’d been off for more than a day was years ago, but the darkness of the memory has never faded.

He’d convinced you to try and wean yourself off. The first few days were euphoric; you’d felt like a whole new person.  
Then it had gone straight through the shitter.  
He’d locked you in your room, hoping that being physically unable to get any was what it would take.  
It was not.

When the failed endeavor was finally over, he’d gotten the box. Spent way too much for it. Asked you to carve your initials in it together. 

His & Yours.

As a promise, an oath, that he’d never do anything to hurt you again. Even for the greater good.

He wanted to be your comfort, your safe space. And though he never said it, though you’d urged him to forget it, you knew he never fully let go of the regret for what he’d put you through.

So he never let you get hurt again. From then on his words were always gentle, his manner always sweet, his touch always soft. Always careful, whether scouting the roads to make sure there were no threats, or chasing miscreants out of the pub. Arranging everything so you never had to draw your sword outside of training, despite your objections, your drive to improve in ways that only active duty would allow. And as a result, teaching you to let go of the incessant taunt of perfection.

Above all, making sure you took your lyrium on time.

And then he died. The last and only time he’d hurt you since the dark days.

“He didn’t mean to hurt you. Ever.”

“How would you know? You’ve never met him.”

“I can sense it from your memories.”

You smile wryly. “Well, I already knew.”

“But things will get bad again.” The sorrow is heavy.

“Not for me.” You press down on his initials and a hidden panel slides open. “He taught me to always keep a reserve.”

Cole’s eyes widen. “Why do you hide it?”

“Out of sight, out of mind. Perfectly controlled so I never take too much.”

He reaches out and grabs your hand, the first time he’s stepped into your comfort zone. First time his skin has met yours. “You should share with the others.”

You pull your hand back and give him a scornful look. “There’s barely enough here for one person. What do you propose we do, let everyone have a droplet?”

His face falls, and if it were about anything else you’d be sympathetic.

“These are mine, Cole. They will last me a week at my exact dosage. It’s taken years to stretch the time between doses to 12 hours. The average Templar can only last 6.”

He hangs his head, realizing what he was asking of you.

“Even if I did want to split it up, at best we can stave off withdrawal one day for a handful of Templars. In other words, even the lucky few would still have six days of hell.”

“But if you keep them for yourself…”

“Then I will be fine. And I can help the others. I’m in a better position to.”

“That’s true. You’ve been through it before.”

You hold yourself rigid so you don’t shudder. He reaches forward again, but you’re not sure if it’s for your hand, or the box your hand is covering.

“I need you to understand something, Cole.”

“All Templars take lyrium. Yes, I know.” He sounds annoyed, which should in turn annoy you, but you find it amusing instead. You don’t smile though, because you need him to understand the severity of your next statement.

“Do not touch this box, ever.”

He tilts his head at you, asking why.

“Perhaps you don’t respect my privacy, considering you like to pop in mid-injection.”

“I-“

“Shh. Perhaps you don’t respect personal space. Fine.”

“B-“

“Hush. I know you see things differently than us. I’m not asking you to change that. I’m only asking you to let me have one thing to myself. One thing that’s only, completely, mine. That shouldn’t be too much to ask.”

He stops trying to interrupt, and sits quietly in thought for a minute.

“I don’t own anything. My blade was issued by the Chantry. My clothes, supplied by the Order. My own life has belonged more to organizations than to me.

This box is more mine than my life has been. Do you understand?”

He closes his eyes and nods slowly. Like the information you’ve given him is tiring. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “He gave you that box, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” You whisper softly.

He leaves without another word.

“I see you’re using the new grip I taught you.”

The soldier smiles proudly at you. “Yes. I can hold the shield longer than the best of them.”

“Feels good doesn’t it? Improvement is key.”

“Eager to learn more, Sir.”

Your pleasant conversation is interrupted as two ex-Templars “accidentally” bump into him. “Look at this brownnose.”

“Just trying to learn.” He stays cordial. Which angers them even more.

“You think you’re better than us don’t you?!”

“I’m not looking for trouble.”

“You don’t belong here. You’d never have made it in the Order.”

Squabbling between soldiers is normal and you’re not a babysitter. In fact, you'd rather not step in. But they need a reminder. 

“This is the Inquisition. You’re not in the Order anymore.”

They bristle. “That’s right. That means you’re not so important anymore, (y/n). You have no authority here. Butt out.”

You roll your eyes, which infuriates them. One of them reaches down to his ankle, finding nothing but his sock. “What the hell?!”

The other one gets scared, thinking you disarmed him without moving. “A-apologies, Sir.”

The two of them hurry away so fast they almost trip.

“I think you can teach me a thing or two about intimidation.”

You turn to see Cullen walk up, grinning.

“I would if I knew what that was all about.” 

“Take a walk with me, (y/n).”

“After you, Just Cullen.”

“I hate to say it, but altercations are going to increase in number until the next supply arrives.” He looks over the battlements into the horizon like he’s watching the carts dragging along through the snow.

You don’t offer commentary; it’s not your place. “How much longer?”

“Four days.”

You raise a brow. Cole had underestimated them, apparently.

“It should be longer, but Leliana found another temporary supplier.”

“She certainly has connections.” You're surprised he told you, but you don’t show it.

“Not enough, this time.” He sighs heavily, the suffering of his soldiers weighing on his shoulders. “How about you? How are you holding up?”

“I’m peachy.” He’s taken aback, then pleasantly surprised when he realizes you’re not being sarcastic.

“I’m glad.” He says with a small smile.

“And you, Just Cullen?” It’s none of your business and above your paygrade, but something about him makes you want to ask, to make sure he’s not hurting.

“I don’t-“ He cuts himself off. “I’m fine.”

“I’m glad, too." You turn away and look into the horizon with him.

“What makes us strong also makes us incredibly weak. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

As a Commander, that’s the last thing he should say. He should be unwavering, beyond doubt. As close to perfection as there ever was.

But perfection alludes all. This, you know. What’s more, you’d be unable to hold it against him.

“We will make the most of it. Regardless.” 

“We will.” He turns away from the horizon to look at you. “I’m sure you have other matters to attend to. Thank you for indulging me, (y/n).”

“Of course, Knight-Captain.”

He chuckles. “I’d correct you, but I think we’d both tire of it. It’s how you see me, isn’t it?”

“Always.” You feel yourself looking away instinctively, so you train your eyes on his face. On the scar above his lip, pink and deep. Showing no insecurity, only certainty.

So it is his turn to avoid your gaze. “I hope you grow to see me as more.”

And he strides away, right before your hands start to shake.

The room is dark, but the crack under the door lets in enough light for you to see the box is exactly where you left it.

You walk over and place your hand on it, running your fingers along the filigree. You remember the awe with which you traced it, the day he brought it home. It was nicer than anything either of you had owned. You’d chided him for spending money on something so frivolous, but he had solemnly flipped open the lid and handed you the dagger. Your initials together, to watch over the thing that kept you whole.

“I’m sorry.”

The words shake you from your musing. Replace the bittersweet nostalgia with dread.

Even as you open the box and see your syringe looking innocently back at you, you know the secret compartment will be empty.

You snap the lid closed. You don’t bother to open the partition and check. It’s too early for the chills to set in, but you feel a shiver escape without your consent.

“Why, Cole?” Empty. That’s how you sound.

His hat is pulled over his eyes as he looks down, and even his body language is withdrawn, like he’s trying to hide in plain sight. His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it.

“Their cries. Too loud, too much. I had to give them some to quiet them.”

You laugh and it’s hollow and thick. He shrinks further inside himself.

“You know what you did wrong, don’t you?”

He nods slowly. “Yes.” But he doesn’t, not really.

“It’s too early for withdrawal to kick in that much-“

“They weren’t faking.” He wants you to know he didn't fritter it away, that he did his best. “I wouldn’t have taken it unless it was necessary."  
His best can go to hell.

“Unless they’d already been off it. Which means they used up their supply in advance. Well. In. Advance.”

He looks up, and you see those eyes, blue and piercing, even in their confusion. His gaze alone probably could have breached the veil.

“I don’t understand.”

“ADDICTS!” The ever-present control you so purposefully exert in your life drops the reigns on your voice.

He jumps. He’s never heard you speak beyond a comfortable drawl. It shocks the reply right out of him.

“You gave up my emergency lyrium to fucking addicts.”

“But they’re in the Inquisition-“

“You think the Inquisition is so perfect that people won’t join just to get their fix? You think it can afford to throw out someone because of that? All you can do is take every able-bodied recruit and restrict their supply, and hope that they either get their shit together, or quit when they run out.”

“But they’re still here.”

“Of course! Why would they leave if they’re getting a goddamn resupply?!”

He looks at you, trying to understand, but he doesn’t. “They would have gotten one anyway if the caravan wasn’t attacked.”

“So they can last on a regular schedule. Take it all the first day, first hour, and agonize a few weeks. Fine. They’re not hopeless. Which is why they’re still here.”

He blinks and cocks his head, still curious, still confused.

“The problem arises when you take the lyrium that I need, oh and spent months curating by the way, through proper channels by limiting my own intake almost to insanity for the off-chance that I would be unfortunate enough to be stuck without any, and give it away to a bunch of junkies who don’t deserve it!”

Your chest is heaving and your eyes are slits, your voice is so wrapped in fury that it’s barely choking it’s way out of your mouth.

He looks at you beseechingly, wanting you to understand his point of view.

But even if you get it, it doesn’t change anything. He broke your trust. He might as well have locked you away.

He took your lifeline.

“How do you know you deserve it more than they do?”

He can’t know how much the words hurt you, but even in his ignorance he can tell he said the wrong thing. He didn’t mean it. But it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that it was yours. And now it’s gone.

“Get out.”

“I’m sorry, (y/n).”

You lift the box over your head to wind up and hurl at him with all your might.

He disappears without a trace.

You place the box gently on the counter, sink onto the ground, and stare at the wall.

You don't come out for the rest of the day.

"You've changed your grip again."

The soldier looks in your direction, not quite meeting your eye.

"Yes, uhm, Captain Rylen showed me this one. He said it would be better."

You raise an eyebrow, partly because it distracts from your headache, and he fidgets. He's clearly tired from holding his shield wrong during practice, but he doesn't put it down. Something to prove, perhaps.

"If that's the case you can probably keep it up for another hour, easy."

He waffles, caught between physical limitations and looking like a liar.

"I wager he'd last two hours without breaking a sweat."

You hear the mischief in Cullen’s voice as you cross an arm over your chest and bow. “Hello Commander.”

“Commander!” The soldier attempts to salute with shield in hand, and succeeds only in dropping it on his own foot.

“Hmm, seems your grip needs work.” Cullen says with a straight face.

The soldier hangs his head in shame. “I’ll keep practicing, Ser.”

“You do that. And use the one (y/n) taught you.”

“B-but Captain Rylen-“

Cullen clicks his tongue. “And who do you think trained Rylen?”

“I.,.” He trails off as it dawns on him.

You hold in a well-deserved smirk. Too much of a professional to gloat. Also, moving your face hurts. "What’s your name, recruit?”

“Finnigan, Ser.”

“Well, Finnigan, I’m guessing you wanted to fit in. So you’re training the exact same as them, right down to finger placement.”

He stares at the ground.

You keep your voice level, even though speaking makes your head pound. You deserve the chance to give a good lecture; but even blowing off steam should be done carefully. No good teacher should take out their personal frustrations on their pupil. 

“Something every good soldier needs: skills of observation. Rylen uses the same grip I showed you. He doesn’t teach it, because it’s counterintuitive for some, and unnecessary for most. But he would never tell you to change it. Never mind that you should have noticed in the first place, you could at least have paid more attention to him if you were going to use him to lie.”

His voice is small. “I’m sorry.”

Cullen waits a moment to make sure you're done. Then he addresses Finnigan sternly.

“Fitting in is secondary. First and foremost is skill. If you do well, they have no choice but to respect you.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“Tempers are a little high right now, but they will settle down in a few days.”

Most commanders would not bother with one troop, but Cullen is more than a Commander. He’s wise, and in his wisdom he’s reassuring. A rarity, a jewel in this tumultuous world. He’s wonderful.

But you will not be upstaged.

“You’re not a Templar, Finnigan, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Everyone brings their own strengths to the table. Yours just happens not to be in your forearm.”

A tiny smile forms over his worry-creased face. “Yes, Ser.”

You chuckle. “I don’t really feel like a ‘Ser.’ Just (y/n) is fine with me.”

“Yes Ser, Just (y/n).”

"You're good with the recruits."

Having expended all your energy and pain tolerance on training said recruits, you have nothing left for posturing. You manage a smile and grateful nod, and hope that it's enough. 

"I would almost think you were free of lyrium."

"If only." It comes across as banter, but you're kicking yourself inside for giving in to your snarkiness.

"The hiding in your room outside of training, even during meals, kind of gives it away."

You take issue with the word hiding, but he's right. Isolation was a symptom of withdrawal, though you'd think of it more as a coping strategy. No need to pretend you're fine, and no risk of lashing out. Neither hurting others, nor ruining the image you work so hard to project. Nothing sullies faster than a Templar's reputation and the word addiction.

Which is bullshit. Every Templar develops dependency on lyrium. It is the cost of their loyalty. What differentiates you is your usefulness. 

So you learned to cope, to perform, to seem almost immune to withdrawal. And sometimes the best you can do is to close the door. Close the door on your flaws, or at least separate the rest of the world from seeing them.

Even if that left you alone in dark with only your imperfection to keep you company.

"I won't let it get in the way of my duties, Knight-Captain."

He sighs, and you correct yourself. "I mean, Cullen." And before you can stop yourself you add, "You must really hate that title." It's an unnecessary observation, from a subordinate.

"It's a chapter of my life I'm happy to have closed."

You nod. "Understood." You'll be more careful in the future.

"But that's not why I si- I mean, you may address me however you'd like."

"If that's not an invitation to call you Master Nug-fennec, I'm going to be very disappointed." Evidently your snarkiness was morphing into glibness. Neither becoming of a former Templar turned rookie tutor. You'd best excuse yourself before you lost even more of his respect. "Now if you'd dismiss me, I'd like to adjourn singularly in my room." But first you'd make an ass of yourself, apparently.

"Dismissed, then." He says with a slight twitch of the corner of his lips.

You hurry away, hoping that solitude will ground the unsteadiness inside you.

"You sighed because you feel bad."

"I do not pity her. And she'd hate to be pitied."

"You don't feel bad for her. You feel bad because of her. Because you know what she's going through. You've been through it too. And you hate to see anyone else suffer it like you did. But especially her… it hurts you more."

"Go bother someone else, demon."

"You should tell her you care. It will help."

"I care about all my soldiers. And they know. Any commander worth their salt would."

"Not like her. You've never cared about anyone the way you do about her."

"If you don't leave, you are going to lose those lovely bangs (y/n) cut for you."

It's not the Winter Palace, but Cole's response is the same.

"It would be easier if you said what you wanted."

He vanishes a second later, not realizing Cullen hadn't even reached for his sword.

The days have passed agonizingly slowly. The darkness of your room is almost welcoming, with no rays splintering your vision.

Your stomach growls, and it's the sound that alerts you. No way you can feel hunger pangs when there's a constant ache across your whole body. 

One more day. You keep saying the words in your head, a mantra to keep you holding on.

You lay down and feel for the rations you'd hidden away under your bed. Force of habit after the time you'd been locked away. Not that he'd refused to feed you last time, but having emergency supplies was now second nature. Not just lyrium, but nonperishables, water, and a blade or three. It eased the rare fear that jumped into your mind at the most inopportune times.

Case in point; splitting headache, chills, and your lifeline cut short by a meddling spirit who didn't know better. The last qualifier did nothing to soothe your anger. Nor that pesky fear that decided to rear its ugly head now.

"You're cold."

You tense at the voice, and your fingers slip past the rations to the dagger you kept with them. There's nothing but air.

"It's not there. I took it in case you decided…" he trails off, different from his blunt and self-assured manner.

"In case what? I decided to hurt you? Stab you like you stabbed me in the back?"

"I didn't-" he cuts himself off. "I'm sorry, (y/n)."

"Your apology is as useless to me as my empty syringe." Which, incidentally is his fault. You want to say more, accusatory phrases and hurled insults, but your lips are trembling.

"Please, (y/n). Don't cry."

His voice is soft, almost sweet, and he looks at you with an almost heartbreaking sadness.

His sadness can shove it.

"I'm not crying. It's the chills." No curses, no yelling, because what good could it do now? But the words are sharp and you bite them out.

"Let me help."

"Stay away!"

Your sword is against the wall as always, propped up in an exact way to maintain blade shape and integrity. He's blocking your way. And he's taken your dagger. You're defenseless and he's closing the distance between you.

"I said stay away!!" You want to scream at him, but your voice is a croak, halfway stuck in your throat. You're shaking uncontrollably and the fear that you always push away is paralyzing you, like harsh words did when you were young, like that Seeker did with one look that time you'd gotten fresh with him, and no amount of training or lyrium can set you free.

You're so goddamn powerless as he climbs onto the bed and pulls you into his arms.

"Warmer now. Less shivering."

You're freezing, like you've been submerged in ice, so much that you don't even feel his touch. You can only feel the chattering of your teeth vibrating against you, the aches in your limbs permeating every tendon, and the constant cold that has seeped into your veins. But if it were real, you would be numb.

Instead it's a phantom cold that tortures you, leaving only purple marks on your soul.

"Just a little longer, (y/n). One more day. Then everything will be ok." His voice is comforting, but no words from him will absolve his sin.

"Let go of me." It comes out quiet, you've lost the energy or maybe the will, to scream.

Maybe it doesn't matter. You can't feel him at all.

"I'm so sorry."

That damned apology. You summon all the strength left of what you've stored ever since you took that very first draught.

You push him away and yell at the top of your lungs: a hoarse, desperate sound that barely makes it through the wall.

It's enough. 

Your Knight-Captain opens the door, takes one look inside and draws his sword.

"Get off her!"

Cole looks up in bewilderment, looking back at you, then again at Cullen. Only then he realizes what a terrible misunderstanding this is.

"It's not- she was- I'm only trying to help!" 

Recognizing the murderous look in his eyes, Cole jumps up and disappears.

"(Y/n)! Are you alright?!" Cullen sprints forward so fast his knees hit the edge of the bed.

You feel the bed thrum in harmony with the pounding in your skull. You use that rhythm to force yourself up.

Before your hand can reach your shoulder to salute, his is there first. He pats it softly. "Maker's breath, now is not the time to stand on ceremony."

"You underestimate me, Master Nug-fennec." If you're going to die, you might as well go out with a laugh.

He smiles ruefully. "Is it too late to go back to Knight-Captain?"

"Whatever you'd like, Just Cullen." You feel yourself fall back onto the bed without your permission. Seems like that's a theme these days.

"I have something for you." He reaches into his coat and pulls out a single, perfect blue cube.

You sigh deeply, feeling the air rush out of your lungs. "It arrived early?"

He doesn't acknowledge the question. "Where's your syringe?" 

You point to the box, wanting to get up and help him fill it. Your legs do not cooperate.

"This may hurt." He warns as he prepares the lifeblood you're bound to.

"A good hurt." You correct him, reaching your arm out with great effort.

"Close your eyes."

You obey eagerly, and with a quick sting, your pain starts fading. As does your consciousness.

"Rest well, (y/n)."

And you drift off to a feather-light kiss against your forehead.

"I want him found. Now. Use extreme force if necessary."

"But Sir, he's one of the Inquisitor's men. He's here on her order alone."

"Then I will answer to her. Go."

The soldiers exchange sideways glances, but do as they are told.

He waits until he's alone before he winds up and punches his wall, raining plaster into his immaculate study.

"How is she doing?"

The voice is vaguely familiar, but you can't quite place it. You strain all your muscles but you can't even open one eye. You'd be angry at yourself for being so helpless, but the aches are much lighter than they'd been, and for what had felt like forever. 

"She's fine, now. She will be up in a few hours at the earliest." This, you assume, is the medic.

"How bad was it?" Cullen's voice. Worried, despite the doctor's assurance. It warms your heart, and you realize with relief that you're able to feel warmth again. 

There's a hesitation. Perhaps the medic is afraid the truth will anger him. Although if anyone were familiar with addiction, the Commander of the Inquisition would be. Scores of charges suffering because of poor planning.

It's not your place to pass judgement. Although considering current circumstances, you'd probably be allowed. Still, if anything this has been a helpful exercise in demonstrating the importance of a stable supply. Actually, a guaranteed supply.

Whether through proper or more unorthodox channels, there can never be a shortage again. Which essentially necessitates both. But the Left Hand should have little difficulty obtaining either.

The medic finally speaks. "I haven't seen many patients make it back as far into withdrawal as she was."

"I see." Cullen's voice is almost detached, save for a hint of fury.

"If there's nothing else, I have other soldiers to tend to." Eager to make a quick exit, you suspect.

"Go."

"Yes, Commander, Your Worship."

So that was the familiar voice. The Inquisitor herself. It figures the first time she sees you up close you're almost a vegetable. Your luck has been piss-poor as of late.

"I'm sorry, Cullen."

"Not your fault." The fury is starting to push past detachment.

"I should have more scouts posted. Had a backup supply-"

"What's done is done."

You wonder if the Commander is usually this bold. You'd never interrupt a senior officer. Not since the Seeker incident.

"It won't happen again." Her voice is curt now. "Now, tell me why your best men are on a witch hunt for Cole."

There's a pause. When he speaks again it's through gritted teeth. "He tried to take advantage of (y/n)." It takes what you'd guess is visible effort for him not to yell.

A sharp intake of breath. "It can't be."

You make another futile attempt to open your eyes or your mouth, but your face is unresponsive. Not even a damn eyebrow raise.

"I would not lie to you, especially about this!" The first half is loud, as he grapples for control of his words.

"I know." Reaffirming, no suspicion. "Tell me more. It may very well be a misunderstanding."

"A mis- that bastard-" he takes a deep breath. He must remain respectful. She is wise, and reserves judgement until all the facts are laid before her.

"I saw her pushing him off her bed as he was grabbing her. No, not even pushing, trying to! She was too weak. If I hadn't heard her scream, Maker forbid…" He curses under his breath but says no more.

"Indeed that is very condemning."

"But?" His voice is low now, but you recognize the danger underneath.

"There are a few things to consider. First, Cole is the spirit of Compassion. Whether he succeeds or not, whether his methods are good or bad, his nature is to try to help. In fact, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say he exists to help."

"So that's an irrefutable fact then? That he's capable only of altruism? He's some sort of perfect angel?"

"I'm not saying that." She's patient, even as he's fuming. "I'm saying that the intent behind his actions is pure. In no way shape or form does that excuse his behavior whenever it's wrong. So, may I continue?"

He says nothing. Maybe he nods, because she goes on.

"Secondly, he is not interested in pleasure, carnal or otherwise.'

He scoffs. "That can't be right."

"It's true. He doesn't do anything for himself. He doesn't eat or drink or sleep. He spends all his time listening for pain and trying to fix it. It's possible he doesn't even know how to do anything else. Or, perhaps he chooses not to. Either way, he just doesn't."

"So that's it, then? His culpability is eased based on guesses of his nature, and previous patterns of behavior?! For Andraste's sake he's a fucking demon!"

"Isn't that how we judge anybody?" Authoritative now, and she's right. At the end of the day, our perception of any being is based on what we've observed of their behavior, and what we believe their heart to be.

You have no doubt. It wasn't what Cullen thought he saw. Cole was trying to hold you to keep you warm.

But you didn't want his help. You don't want him to make up for his almost fatal mistake.

You just want him to leave you alone. And if he won't, you want him gone.

Despite being fully aware, you're not able to actually wake up until what feels like a week. In reality, it's about half a day. When your eyes finally open, your room is lit only by a wavering candle, barely creating a silhouette of the Knight-Captain.

You want to say not just his title, but his name; despite having spent way too long listening to his loud pacing footsteps and breathy sighing. 

But your throat is even scratchier than before. So instead of a sweet crooning, you let out a hacking cough.

It's enough, more than enough. You watch his eyes brighten, putting the lowly candle to shame. He strides over to your side in just a few steps of his powerful gait. "You're awake. Thank the Maker."

You want to laugh, out of relief and a little bit of absurdity at it all. But you're not sure it will accomplish more than giving you an asthma attack. "Yes, the Maker and also the horse and cart that carried the lyrium up the mountain."

He clears his throat and avoids eye contact for a moment. Is it at your slight blasphemy, or because he felt too vulnerable from his obvious caring? You sit up and cross your arm across your chest in the gesture of your ever-present respect for him. Affirming him the right to first break the silence.

He sits down next to you and gives you a scolding look. "Barely back from the dead and this is the first thing you do?"

"Hey, it means I'm right and dandy, doesn't it?"

"That, it does." He smiles softly, and you see the wrinkles of fatigue on his face. And not just for you, today, but years and for countless other charges.

You must remind yourself of his status before you get soft and possibly disrespectful. "Knight-Captain, I-"

"I thought I'd never hear those two infernal words." He reaches forward and embraces you, before letting go and backing up so quickly you'd barely realized it happened. But just like the kiss on your forehead, it had.

"My apologies, (y/n). After what happened earlier, I shouldn't- you must be-" he exhales deeply and steadies himself. You're experienced enough to notice he's keeping his fists from curling into fists, save for one pinky that can't straighten from the overwhelming anger.

Imperfection. It looks so good on him. That's how you must've looked back then.

You remember the face, and then the initials, and you jump off the bed quickly.

"(Y/n), it's safe here, you don't need to run!"

You stop short, not because of his words, but because you see the box is safe and sound on the table in the next room.

"Now sit down! You're not going to recover any faster moving around."

It comes out as an order, and you sit back down on the bed exaggeratedly.

"I-ah…" he lapses into awkward silence.

"On your order, Knight-Captain."

A small smile crosses his face before he hides it with a stern look. "Rest. That's my order."

"Understood." You lie back down, keeping an eye on the box. Cullen misunderstands.

"I have my best men searching for that demon. He will answer for what he did."

"I don't think he-" another hacking cough takes over.

"Enough." He presses his fingers on your lips and you feel uncomfortably hot all of a sudden. "Save your energy. The next dose won't arrive until late afternoon tomorrow."

The news weighs you down. You know you'll definitely last, but the unpleasant memory of the bitter cold is so fresh. You close your eyes, hoping to escape into your dreams.

Luck smiles on you at last, and takes you away, with these words as your wings.

"I'm sorry, (y/n). That was my only emergency dose."

"He's eluded capture this far. He left me a note saying he was only trying to help. I'd figured as much, but I know you want to hear it for yourself."

"I'd use the word question, not ask." He says gravely.

"You will get your chance." She studies him, knowing he won't react well to what she says next. "Is there any chance that she wanted-"

"To be assaulted?!" He gives her a disgusted look. If he wasn't so over-invested he'd realize she would never in a million years so much as hint at that. She chooses not to point it out for now.

"To be close to someone. Comforted. And he, as he is wont to do, interpreted it to an extreme level."

Cullen stares at the ground angrily, knowing he's not being his most rational self; the knowledge itself having no bearing on his behavior. Yet he can only be insubordinate to a certain degree. So he chooses silence. She waits a moment before continuing.

"She pushes him away, naturally, and you walk in at the precise moment making him look like a filthy pervert."

He grits his teeth, finding this explanation ludicrous at best. "Is that your final judgement, Inquisitor?"

"Oh, Andraste's tits!" Even the leader of the Inquisition has only so much patience. "We will ask Cole when we find him, and we will ask (y/n) when her health is more stable. Now, as my Commander you are obliged to trust me." 

She takes a deep breath. "And as my friend and confidante, you shouldn't even have to doubt. I would never subject a soldier to anything less than a safe environment. Especially one so clearly important to you. I am more than willing to deliver justice when it is needed, or deserved." She looks at him with a combination of authority and hurt, strong and vulnerable.

He knows she's right but can't bring himself to apologize. Not while you're deep in recovery and your attacker is missing. 

"Understood." It's the best he can muster.

"Good. Now if you excuse me I have a terrified spirit to coax out of thin air."

The oppressive heat of afternoon wakes you. While it's a welcome change from chills, your clothes are now pasted to your body and the blanket. Was it always this hot and you were too self absorbed to notice?

Well that's a bit harsh. Enduring the symptoms of withdrawal could hardly be called selfish. Terribly unnecessary, yes.

You rifle through your pack, looking for the thinnest trousers and shirt you can find, one leg already out of your sweat-soaked pants.

"Multi-tasking even when changing. Don't you ever get tired?"

You growl at the intruder, but he's slumped forward with his eyes glued to his feet, facing away from you. You were by no means a quick forgive, aside from that one man. So really, you were not a quick forgive, ever, these days.

"I've had plenty of bed rest, thanks to you." You slap on your clothes quickly, even though he hasn't moved an inch.

"One day is not enough to make up for decades."

"No one should have to spend 24 hours in bed." You don't bother dashing for your sword. You know he has reflexes you'd only achieve supernaturally. 

"I know saying sorry won't fix it. That's why I'm here."

You let out something between a scoff and a snort. Annoyed as fuck, but curious nonetheless. "So you're here to not apologize. Fan-bloody-tastic."

"No." He turns so he's facing you, keeping his eyes on the floor. Is he learning common sense, to not rudely watch someone strip? Or is it shame? His next words render the thought academic. "I'm here to collect my punishment."

This time, it's a pure snort. "You're what now?"

"Cullen. He's looking for me. To pass judgement. But it's only fair that you decide what it should be. I understand now. It's not what I felt when I did it. It's not my reasoning or explanation that matters.

What it was for you. What it made you feel. That's what matters. And even if I can sense it, all of the ugliness, the terror, the fury, it's yours.

It's yours to do with what you wish.

Do with me what you will."

You're at a loss of words. You know he was just trying to help some people in pain. Just as he was just trying to help with the chills. But intent will not prevent consequences. And if there's anything addiction has taught you, it's taking responsibility.

"Get my sword."

He shudders, but doesn't disappear. "It will be less of a mess if you use your dagger. I put it back where I found it."

You reach behind you and feel the hilt exactly where it always is.

"Close your eyes, Cole."

He obeys, hands gripping his sides to hold himself together.

You rush at him, so he doesn't have time to change his mind.

The blade arcs through the air, a perfect curve refracting the rays of the insistent sun.

He cracks one eye open, slowly.

"Your bangs needed a trim."

He looks at his feet again, but for once it's just to see. Small bits of straw dotting the ground.

"I… thank you."

"You're lucky I have a soft spot for blondes."

A soft, low sound that you've never heard before slips through his lips.

"And what exactly is so funny, demon?"

He looks away, out of shyness this time. "Not humor, relief."

"Well, if you really want to stay alive, you'll get out of here before Cullen comes."

He frowns sadly. "It's not what he thinks. I was trying to keep you warm. That's all."

You sigh deeply. "I know. I pushed because I just wanted to be left alone, not because I thought you wanted to take advantage of me."

"You're always alone, (y/n). It's ok to need someone."

"Or, you should have kept the junkies company instead, and left my lyrium to me."

"I thought they needed it more than you. But your health deteriorated faster than the others. Almost as fast as the addicts. Is that because…" He looks at you, not wanting to complete the thought aloud. He didn't want to hurt you again.

You cross your arms and look at him with disdain. "The longer anyone is on lyrium, the worse it gets. Not to mention, I'm on a reduced dose. Not because I don't need it, but because I don't want the madness to take me quite yet. It's harder on the body, especially during withdrawal, but it preserves the mind. To a degree.'

It takes a moment for him to process your words. Somehow he'd never considered this possible explanation. As the gears turn in his head, his confusion morphs into horror.

"I always thought you took it less frequently because you were less dependent on it!"

"Considering how old I was when I started, that is a categorically terrible assumption."

He sits down heavily. "I should never have touched your lyrium. I could have killed you."

"Given your agility, I assume you always could. Though without it, you still nearly succeeded."

He chews his lip in uneasy thought. 

"Why do you put yourself through it, (y/n)? Is it worth this suffering every single day, when you know you can't outrun it?"

"I won't let myself go without a fight. And I am no easy opponent."

"What if I told you it would be easier to give in? That it will hurt less? That instead of lunatic ravings it can be a peaceful-"

"Never."

Your voice is so suddenly loud he jumps to his feet in surprise.

"A dreamlike state of being without pain and sorrow, as I slowly drift away? Never.

Let the aches and fatigue do their best. I will trade every relief, physical or otherwise, for every last shred of sanity.

I will not forget him. Not as long as I draw lucid breath."

He shakes his head furiously. "I don't understand."

You laugh, and to your surprise it's not harsh or mocking. "Nobody really understands love, Cole."

He trains his eyes on yours. "Even if I don't, I respect your decision. And I will help you however I can."

"Maybe don't try to help for a while. You know what road to hell is paved with."

"Stones?"

"No, dummy. Good intentions."

"But that's not a thing. How can you pave a road with it if it has no shape or form?"

"Just let me rest. You can ask someone else."

"Alright."

Wonder of wonders, he actually listens to you this time. He motions you to bed and walks away.

Of course, he has to have the last word. "One more thing."

"Ugh. What!"

"I didn't take your knife because I thought you'd hurt me. I was afraid you'd hurt yourself."

You lay down and close your eyes. His face has been fading from your memory, but his love never will.

"Even if I don't want my life, even if I don't care about it, he did. It mattered to him. So it will always matter to me."

"That's a promise then."

You feel that same feather-light kiss on your forehead.

"Thank you, (y/n), for holding on."

When you open your eyes, he's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Wahhhhh. As much as I love Cullen (which in and of itself is complicated) Cole gets the last word again. Or last soft moment.
> 
> I needed to give a hopeful ending so no typical Bucky heartbreak. Except for the fact that your last lover died. Hey, it’s still me.
> 
> Quick poll 1: what part hit you right in the heart?!
> 
> Quick poll 2: if I decide on a sequel, what would you like to see?! And whoooooo would you want to end up with 
> 
> Hope all you lovelies are doing well, hanging in there, kicking 2021 in the ass!
> 
> Xoxo Bucky


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